The substance of the poem
it is not in the idea
but on the substrate
of every silence that bustles.
In january
a noise of magic
the invisible ones
they opened our eyes
We see
We can see
maybe listen
but the time is not yet
so that our ideas can be constellated
oh difficult the art of transmitting
divine will
and not juxtapose the art of guessing
to foresee the future by means of signs
more than a prelude to the essential
what followed
and what followed
it was the music
candy
waiting for the dawn.
Sometimes
I would like to find myself
with whom they are not
to tell you
how their lives flourish
in the garden of mine.